Hazardous Encounter
by Foznocker
Summary: A Terran Marine's chance encounter gives him a new perspective on his foe. Set in the StarCraft universe, but not any particular module or episode. Features Zerg Zerglings and Hydralisks, and a Protoss.


The lights flickered in the corridor, then dimmed, then at last went out. Terran Marine Private First Class Avery Hicks looked around with the help of his helmet lamps. Nothing up the corridor... wait. There! A flick of a tail around a corner, and soon he was overrun with zerglings. Pesky little buggers. He kept his finger on the trigger as the bullets blazed from the barrel of his gun. He was making quick work of this batch of enemy, all by himself, when suddenly his gun stopped. The ammo gauge showed a quarter clip left, so it must have jammed.

Only three zerglings left, but he was left to fight them with just his armor, his strength and his wits. No matter.... One leaped for his faceplate, and he met it with his iron-clad fist: an easy victory. The second did not learn from the fate of its comrade, and he quickly dealt it the same fate. But the third, showing unusual restraint for a zergling, stayed just out of his reach.

He tried to use his gun to club the sucker, but again it fell back, circled, looked for an opening. With two or three of its peculiar frog-leaps it circled behind him, and he had to spin quickly to keep it in his sight. Back and forth it jumped, enough each time that he strained to make his heavy armor move quickly with him. He felt his tight muscles quickly wearying. Was this its plan? Could the little devil have enough intelligence to know what it was doing to him?

The zergling stopped its random back and forth, pausing to sit back on its leathery scaled haunches. With a start it leaped for Hicks' throat, but he was ready for it once again with his fist. Apparently this zergling was no genius after all; he had given it more credit than was its due. He had to watch that, putting his own human thought processes onto the behaviors of these utterly alien creatures.

He looked up the corridor again: no more signs of activity. Back behind him, toward the way he had come with his unit: the same thing. He hoped they were having better luck than he was, finding their way to the core, and above all sticking together. It had only taken a moment, a burst of activity and confusion while under simultaneous zergling attack and hydralisk fire, and he had found himself alone. He had been at a four-way intersection, and could not tell which direction his unit had gone, so he randomly chose a direction. It wasn't long before he realized his unit hadn't come this way, because the corridor was still heavily infested with Zerg. He thought about turning back, but then he came across some sunken colonies which he decided to take out alone, and then he got turned around and wasn't sure of the way back.

So he kept on, killing as many Zerg as he came across. They were mostly weak here, and few could even come close to injuring him. Still, they were prolific, and the journey had taken its toll. He ached all over, and though his armor had limited medical capabilities he really needed the more advanced services of a marine medic. The armor had done all it could for him for the moment, and anyway, it was heavy and he suddenly realized he was dead tired. He looked once again up, down, and up the corridor, then sat down and fumbled with the release for his helmet.

He knew from suit sensors the air outside his suit was toxin-free, but once he got the helmet off the distinctive dead-fish odor of dead Zerg and creep was nearly overwhelming. He worked the latches of his breastplate, and soon the entire suit of armor lay in a pile next to him. He positioned the helmet lamps to point up the hallway—not that there was a damn thing he could do at this point if anything larger than a single larva came at him, but at least he'd like to know.

The armor had mostly protected him from the relentless Zerg assaults, but not completely. Here and there a zergling claw or hydralisk spine had penetrated, and though the suit's first aid had stopped the bleeding and stitched the wound, he was covered in marks that were painful to the touch. Other marines tended to wear a second protective layer under their armor, but he didn't like the feel of it, and anyway it made him hot. So he chose to wear only a tank top and boxer shorts under his armor. The shirt had been cut to ribbons, but the boxers were still serviceable.

He used the material of the shredded shirt to tie armbands and a headband, not really for any other reason than he liked the look. Probably no human would ever again look at him, but still he was a bit proud of his looks. Continuous genetic refinement had made all today's humans vastly improved over the earlier models. A man of previous centuries would feel outclassed and intimidated by the lean and hugely muscular bodies of modern men. Then, too, appearances had been evened out, so that everyone was either a handsome man or a beautiful woman, and no one need feel embarrassed of their looks. Still, Hicks had noticed that, in a world full of handsome men, he tended to get female attention first, and have his choice of companionship. He liked this, and did what he could to encourage it, dressing in the latest styles and spending extra time and cash on personal grooming.

Now, very likely the last being to appreciate his appealing looks would be the next hydralisk or zergling around the corner. He wasn't the type to feel sorry for himself; mostly he was just taking stock of his situation. Still, he allowed himself a moment to think of all the things he wished he'd done. There were a thousand places he wished he'd seen, people he wished he could talk to one last time. He wished he'd spoken to his parents more. Above all, he regretted sleeping with Ginnie, since their friendship had seemed to change beyond his control once he had. He missed her warm sunny outlook, her infectious smile, and realized he didn't regret sleeping with her, he just regretted sleeping with anyone else afterward. But that gas was vented into space long ago, and he would probably never see Ginnie again anyway, even if he got out of this alive, which wasn't likely.

He picked up the gun and inspected the barrel. There was no jam visible inside. If there had been he might have had a chance of fixing it, but the jam was probably in the firing chamber. He tried to pull out the clip, but of course it was stuck. He had been trained never to force the clip, since there was a danger of discharging a round. But he thought about all the other dangers facing him, and decided to force the clip anway. He yanked three times with increasing force, and on the third try it broke free. The jammed shell did not discharge but clattered harmlessly to the floor. He looked into the chamber; either the force of the jam or his wrenching action had bent both the slot of the chamber and the mouth of the clip. There was no way he was ever going to get them to fit together again. He had already fired this gun for the last time. Disgusted, he threw it to the floor of the corridor.

The sound of the gun hitting the floor echoed noisily. He worried that he might have given away his presence. He listened for a few moments... silence. Wait... a sound... slithery, probably a hydralisk. Maybe more than one, coming from... behind him? He fumbled with the armor. Now definitely the slithering was behind him, though there were footfalls coming from the opposite direction as well. Hydralisks behind and zerglings ahead... at least it would be over quickly. He didn't have time to get any armor on at all, but he tried to wield the breastplate as a shield. He aimed the headlamps to the bend in the corridor where he thought the hydralisks would appear. They sounded very close, much closer than the footfalls behind. An ugly insectoid head popped around the corner, now two, now three.... He must have been just out of range of their darts, because they were still coming at him. He tried to get as much of his body behind the poor shield of his armor as he could, although it was almost comically useless.

The footfall sounds behind him became all at once much louder. He could tell now there was a single set: probably not zerglings, which travelled in packs. For a brief moment he allowed himself to hope it was his unit come to rescue him, but they too would still be travelling in a group—hopefully, anyway.

The hydralisks were surely in range now. The lead one stopped, and fired off its first volley of darts. Most clattered against the breastplate Hicks was hiding behind, but each of his legs was hit by a single spine. The venom of the darts was not especially poisonous; it would take a lot to kill him. Still, he was going to get a pretty heavy dose here shortly. He just didn't see a way out of this one.

All at once the corridor was filled with blinding light. The first hydralisk disappeared in a puff of black smoke, followed quickly by the second, and then the third. Dazed, Hicks took a moment to absorb what had just happened. The footfalls behind him... he turned to face his benefactor.

Behind him, and not more than ten paces away, stood a figure, humanoid, but much larger, in golden armor. It wore no helmet, and Hicks could see its face: featureless except for two large black eyes in which he could see his own distorted reflection.

A Protoss zealot.

So he wasn't going to be living much longer after all. The Protoss were not known to be fond of Terrans, though that was largely the fault of both the Terran Dominion and the United Earth Directorate. Still, this was a better death, facing an honorable enemy. He spoke the only words of Protoss that he knew: "En târo Adun!" Then he stood at attention, awaiting his fate.

The Protoss made a chattering sound. After a few seconds it grew louder, and Hicks realized it was laughing at him. "En târo Adun, little Terran. Why do you stand so? Ah, you think I shall kill you. Fear not, for a Protoss will never kill a harmless little creature that poses no threat."

This angered Hicks. "I am not little, and I assure you I can still pose a threat." He wanted to prove it, but realized it was probably in his best interest not to, and anyway he couldn't really think of how.

The Protoss stopped its clattering. "Forgiveness. I meant no insult. I'm certain you are a very imposing specimen of your kind, but I have weapons and armor and you have, well, a pile of scrap." It gestured toward his discarded armor. "I suppose you could throw it at me, but the two most imposing weapons in your possession are the hydralisk spines embedded in your flesh. If you'd like, I can help you remove those."

Actually they hurt like hell, but Hicks wasn't going to admit that. "They don't bother me at all. In fact they're quite comfortable."

"No use trying to lie to me," the Protoss replied. "My psionic abilities can easily detect it. I respect your stoicism, but now, please allow me to help you remove those before they damage you any further."

Hicks hesitated. The Protoss were reputed to be honorable, and he could see no reason for this one to lie about wanting to help. It could have killed him already but didn't. He couldn't see a reason to question its motives. He assented, "All right."

The Protoss strode toward him, and had to stoop to reach the spines. "As you probably have realized, the spines are serrated and cannot be pulled back out of the entry wound. Therefore we must push them through." Grasping one with each hand, it quickly shoved the spines further into his legs until they protruded from the back.

Hicks screamed involuntarily. He shoved the Protoss away. "What the hell? I thought you were going to help me get them out, not hurt me more!"

The alien blank expressionless face was hard to read, but Hicks thought he saw a flicker of sympathy. "Forgiveness again. I should have explained what I am doing. Now I can pull the spines out from the other side. I will then heal your wounds."

"Heal... You can do that?" Even as Hicks asked, he realized that the better question was whether the Protoss _would_ do that. Still, psionic influence or not, at this point it made the most sense to trust the creature. He tried to sound gruff, to make himself feel less helpless and at the mercy of an alien. "Go ahead, then. And hurry, would you?"

This time the Protoss seized the tips of the spines and pulled them through the thick flesh of Hicks' thighs. It was a strange sensation, and unbelievably painful, but it was over quickly. Now the Protoss held its hands over the wounds and closed its eyes. Soon a blue glow appeared to flow from its hands to Hicks' wounds, and the holes in his thighs quickly shrank to nothing. It then moved its hands upward, and the glow danced along the nicks and scratches of Hicks' thick bare torso, across his broad chest and down his arms. Those wounds, too, disappeared almost immediately. Hicks was beginning to feel healthy, better than he'd felt in a long time, since before the Terran Marines started loading him up with stim drugs to enhance his performance. "You should be well enough to make good your getaway now, anyway," commented the Protoss.

"That's amazing," Hicks marvelled. Time to cut to the chase: "Why are you doing all this for me? It's not as though the Terrans have exactly been friends to the Protoss."

"But I know that's not your responsibility," the creature answered. "That's the Dominion and the UED. Concepts of integrity, honor, justice... these values mean nothing to those governments, but they are important to you. I can sense these matters."

Hicks argued, "I have always worked for those governments. I could have been a rebel, a revolutionary, tried to force a change, but I didn't."

"No, you couldn't have. Had you done so, you would never have been in a position to bring about change. You would have been pushed out, marginalized, deemed irrelevant. But now you are in a position for your courage to make a difference. A wise man waits for the right moment to be brave."

Hicks snorted, "Wisdom, courage, integrity.... Are you sure you have the right guy? Seriously, you're putting an awful lot on my shoulders. What makes you so sure I can handle it?"

"I'm not absolutely sure you can, but I hope, and I trust you, because I can sense what you are feeling. And I'm going to give you something else, to help make sure you can. I'm going to make love to you."

Hicks was startled, then got angry again. "The hell you are. I'm not doing the nasty with... with a....."

"Forgiveness once more," the Protoss interrupted. "The words I use are coming directly from your brain; that's the translation you came up with for the _khalani_ concept I have in mind. It involves an opening up, a sharing of the spirit, and it is very intimate. But I sense the word you used implies an act of reproduction. I assure you I have no intention of permitting you to impregnate me." If it was a joke, Hicks could see no trace of humor on the Protoss' blank face.

He agreed, "Okay. Let's do this thing. What do I have to do? Should I be standing, or...." He trailed off. The Protoss held its hands up before it, in prayer or meditation. It was already emitting a strange blue glow that curled off it like steam rising from a runner on a cold day. The blue mist rose and curled, then twisted toward him. It wrapped around him, enveloped him, embraced him, until he felt its warmth soak into his skin. It grew brighter, stronger, pulsed faster, and he could feel the flow of energy into his body and back to the Protoss. Faster and faster, he felt the rhythm of his heart keep pace. A sense of peace and well-being pervaded him, but it was more than that: he felt excitement, anticipation, wonderment, the sheer joy of life, of giving of oneself and receiving in return, that expanded and swelled into a crescendo of ecstasy. The all-encompassing glow began to fade now. He felt his pulse slow, though the sense of union with the Protoss remained. His excitement faded back into a background of tranquility that remained strong and steady in his heart.

"It is done," the Protoss sighed. "I have touched the deepest places of your soul, and you mine. What we have shared will last you your entire meager human lifetime, and I hope a little bit beyond."

Hicks knew what it meant; he felt it, deep down inside him. "You have changed me," he said simply.

"Change is unceasing; to stop changing is to die," the Protoss replied. "But I have only given you what you were ready to receive. It would have been terrible for the both of us had you been otherwise."

He nodded. "I understand now. I understand so much. What we humans have done so far is so small and pitiful before the great deeds—and the great folly—of the Xel'Naga. But through the..." he grasped for the word, "...the _khala_, we will fight not out of anger but out of righteousness."

Suddenly he heard shouts behind him, human voices. "You must go, quickly!" he urged the Protoss. "They will not understand, and they will try to harm you. They may not be able, but you do not wish to harm them either. Go back to your people, and I will return to mine. We will not likely meet again in this world. Go!"

The Protoss did not argue; it merely nodded, made a gesture that resembled a Terran salute, and with three of its long loping strides it was gone around the far corner of the corridor. At the same moment it disappeared, the lights of Terran headlamps appeared around the bend at the other end.

"Hicks!" his sergeant called out. "We were sure we'd lost you." He paused when he saw the pile of discarded armor. "What the hell'd you do that for? This ain't exactly the best place to get nekkid."

"It was broken," Hicks replied. "It wasn't doing me any good."

As the medic scanned him up and down, she said, "It must've helped some, 'cause you don't got a mark on you. How'd you get away with that, with those things around?" She pointed at the zergling carcasses that littered the corridor.

"Just lucky I guess," Hicks smiled. "Really lucky."


End file.
